American Horror Story - Season 2AU E7 - Harvest
by leaftheweed
Summary: Sinister seeds have been sewn at Briarcliff. Now it's Harvest time. It's the time of year when the darkest forces have power. Missing patients are turning up dead and there's more than one killer on the loose. Winter is coming for everyone, but first they'll have to survive the fall. Not for the faint of heart or easily triggered!
1. Chapter 1 - Sara's Downfall

**November 1928**

The lone bell above the asylum chapel tolled the morning hour. The foggy morning was damp and cold. Sara didn't want to leave to the warmth of her dorm room bed. She could hear the other children shuffling out to wash up before breakfast. She knew she should join them but she couldn't bring herself to part company with the toasty bed. It was so rare that she felt comfortable there.

"Get up, you lazy little brat!"

Sister Mary Alburga's shrill voice woke the girl from the light sleep she'd dozed off into. She'd been a resident of Briarcliff's children's ward long enough to know that tone meant punishment. She was already crying before her bare feet hit the icy floor.

The sour-faced woman scolded her and boxed her ears till they rang. She told the other children who were already in line to look at her in her disgrace, which they did, though all but one only did so because they were afraid to disobey. Everyone in the ward feared Sister Alburga, even the other nuns.

When the Sister was satisfied the girl had been thoroughly shamed, the line was allowed to go to the mezzanine for a greasy, flavorless breakfast of plain oatmeal and orange juice. Sara didn't want hers but her stomach was so hungry that it hurt, so she forced herself to swallow the oily glop. She felt queasy afterward, which wasn't much of an improvement over the cramping.

After breakfast, Sara was set to her punishment: Washing the windows of the dormitory. The dorm rooms were on the third floor of the Kirkbride building and to clean the outside of the panes, the girl was forced to stand on the ledge while Sister Alburga supervised her. The wind was strong out on the ledge and even though the nun had allowed her a coat, the autumn cold sliced right through her clothes and chilled her through and through.

She worked as quickly as she could but Sister Alburga kept making her go back over areas she'd already washed, claiming she'd missed spots. Sara was soaked and shivering violently. Her fingers had lost all color and it hurt to move them when she squeezed the cold, wet rag out into the small pail the Sister had propped on the window sill with her.

"C-c-can't I p-please come in t-to get w-w-warm?" she begged the nun. Her teeth were chattering so badly, it was hard to make the words come out.

"Not until you've finished," Sister Mary Alburga said with stony indifference.

"But it's so c-cold!" Sara whined. She dunked her rag in the small bucket of sudsy water. "I can't feel m-my fingers."

"Then you can't feel cold."

Sara sniffled and scrubbed at the window some more, even though she couldn't see whatever it was she was supposed to be cleaning off. She knew there wasn't anything there to wash. The nun was being cruel just because she could be and there was nothing Sara could do about it except pray that it would end soon.

The half-frozen girl went to dunk her rag again. As she leaned toward the bucket, her foot slipped on the soapy water that had pooled on the ledge. She gasped and teetered. The rag fell from her hand as she tried to grab the window, but there was nothing protruding to catch hold of. Her cold, wet fingers scrabbled helplessly at the frame. She was going to fall.

Then she felt Sister Alburga's hands on her ankles. Relief flooded her senses like warm rain. She looked down at her rescuer but the girl's joy died when she saw the nasty look on the nun's face. With lips curled in a hateful sneer, Sister Alburga shoved her. Hard.

Sara's feet went out from under her and she was falling. Her chin hit the wet window sill and she flipped midair. She saw the sky for a surprisingly long moment, then the world turned sideways. She caught a glimpse of one of the other child patients in the common yard, staring at her as she fell. Then Sara hit the concrete and saw no more.

She was buried that same day under a small stone marked "Orphan", though she had a family—one that would believe their troubled daughter had died from pneumonia, thanks to the staff at Briarcliff.

Days later Sara would find herself wandering the halls of the hospital, alone and confused, in a shadowy echo of the world she'd lived in. Dark things came from the worst parts of the hospital to chase and terrify her; to hurt her. When she wasn't running scared, she was painfully alone. So many hours spent wandering the grounds with only the wind for company left her aching inside so bad, it felt like when she'd been alive and starving.

Then she found Heather and the world was full again, alive and much safer than it had been, for her. She could touch and talk and eat and laugh and feel so many nice things. She had meant to let Heather go after just a bit but being alive again felt so good and the prospect of going back to hell was terrifying.

Sara couldn't let go of Heather. She couldn't even risk letting Heather 'wake up'. Not until they'd found a way out of the asylum, anyway. Then, Sara told herself, she could find someone else to ride. Someone who wanted to help her. Then they could all be free.

Until then, Heather would have to stay asleep.

 **...**

 **-= AMERiCAN HoRRoR SToRY =-**

 **...**

* * *

Author's Note:

Brutal beginning, yes? And yes, there was a pun in the description of this Episode that related to this chapter: Surviving the fall. Which, obviously, Sara didn't.

Her story is based on the real life accounts that have surfaced about abuse of orphans at St. Joseph's Orphanage in the 1940s and Goodwood Orphanage in the 1950s. Some say the supposed survivors fabricated the memories. Check into it yourself and see what you think. Did nuns really kill children they were supposed to care for?

In case it's not clear from the opening, this Episode's going to be harsh. Electroshock dialed up to 11. Brace for it.


	2. Chapter 2 - The Girls

**November 1968**

Billie Dean sat in the hard wooden chair, straight-backed and alert, under the influence of only the mildest of sedatives. The powder blue skirt of her asylum-issue dress stretched over her knees, giving her folded hands a comfortable place to rest.

"What would you have me say to him?" Dr. Thredson prompted gently.

He looked across the desk through the cigarette smoke haze at his prim patient. The overhead lamp cast harsh shadows across her face, emphasizing her pallor. The medium had abandoned all attempts at maintaining a nice hairdo in the hospital and had taken to pulling her blonde hair back in a ponytail. It was less likely for another patient to grab her hair like that. Her time in the asylum had taken its toll in many ways.

"Tell him what I just told you," she insisted. "Heather is being 'ridden' by a spirit. He'll understand."

It took all of the doctor's self control to keep his expression neutral. He prescribed to the ideal that a therapist should offer open acceptance to whatever a patient put forth. To do otherwise might cause the patient to lose trust in their confidant and shut down. "What do you hope to accomplish if he'll agree to see you?"

One of her hands went up and fluttered near her temple but never quite settled. Finally she folded her hands again. "I suppose I'd ask him how we could get the spirit out of her."

"You're hoping he'll perform an exorcism on her?" Thredson paraphrased.

Billie Dean tipped her head. "I know it sounds crazy," she admitted. She smiled self-consciously. "I didn't even want to say anything because I know how it sounds." Her smile faltered as worry crowded in. "But I'm afraid Sara might make Heather do something—What I mean is.. Sara doesn't understand this time. Or people like Sister Jude."

Oliver was fascinated. He jotted down a note about looking into Heather's case. He would have to see about getting some time with her; she'd been assigned to Dr. Freeman and Thredson had only recently met him. He was curious to know if the other patient shared the delusion or if it was something Billie Dean had invented herself.

Thredson regretted not spending more time researching Ms. Howard's background and made another note to dig into that further. He excused himself the lapse due to having so many other things going on. He knew she was cousin to the Monsignor and suspected he might find the priest a handy shortcut into Billie Dean's history.

"I'll see what I can do about getting some time with the Monsignor," he told Billie Dean. "He's a very busy man and has a lot going on right now."

"He'll make time for me," Billie Dean responded with a small but confident smile. She knew her cousin must be up to his ears in all the blowback from Halloween. She had a feeling he might even welcome a familiar, friendly face.

—

Things didn't happen quite as quicky as Billie Dean would have liked but, in the end, the Reverend Monsignor found time near the end of the day to see her. He had a deep-set sense of weariness to him when the orderly dropped her off at his office. He looked older; ill-slept. Thinner. Her heart went out to him.

"You look like I feel," she said, trying for levity.

He rallied with a weak smile. "It's been a trying time." He got up and came around his desk to close the distance between them.

"That's an understatement," Billie Dean couldn't help observing. She held her hands out to him. "Are you all right?"

He hesitated only a fraction of an instant before taking her hands. Her touch was gentle and imparted a faint sense of calm the priest was grateful for. "I've seen better days," he said vaguely. "Briarcliff's lost so many patients in the past few weeks..." He trailed off because he didn't want to tell her about how he'd resorted to hiding the disappearances completely; all of them.

She didn't need to hear it. She wasn't ignorant. "I'm sorry, Timothy. I know how stressful that must be. But if security—"

He pulled away from her then. "We can't afford more security." He paced over to the window to look out over the grounds. His eyes inevitably found the mill.

"I'm sorry," Billie Dean repeated. And she was.

He sighed and his shoulders dropped an inch. He forced himself to put back on a neutral face then turned back toward her. "You didn't come here to discuss my problems. What is it you need?"

She wavered, wanting to console him further but knowing the futility of it, decided to get back on track. "It's Heather. She's—There's a ghost inside her. She's being possessed by a little girl who died here in the asylum."

The Monsignor frowned, overwhelmed by the strange story. "What... makes you say that?"

Billie Dean massaged the area between her brows. "I was conducting the séance when the girl's spirit entered Heather. She won't let her go now."

"You held a séance in here?" The priest was outraged. "This is holy ground. You had no right to—"

"I had every right!" Billie Dean interrupted. For the moment she forgot their respective roles and reverted back to family. "That little girl's ghost sought me out. Repeatedly! I had to see if I could help her. She's just a little girl! She can't be more than ten!"

The Monsignor didn't want to hear it. "Witchcraft has no place on church grounds!"

The medium stared at him and an awkward moment grew between them, allowing the man time to cool down enough to regret the accusation. But he was too proud and too stressed out to back down.

"I need your help, Timothy," Billie Dean said, her voice trembling with the effort not to yell at him. "Please. Heather needs you and so does Sara."

The priest rubbed his eyes. "Fine," he said after a moment. "I'll speak with her. But this is the last I want to hear of the matter—and of you using the dark arts. I won't have it here."

Her mouth tightened but she forced herself to focus on the fact that he said that he would help her. "Thank you, Monsignor."

...

Violet was growing concerned. She hadn't seen Rosemary since the day after the blackout. Violet had spent the most of the chaotic night with Tate, until an orderly finally looked in around four in the morning. The bald man had made her go back to her room and her roommate had already been in bed when she got there. The other girl had been awake and she recognized Violet, which was becoming a touch-and-go thing anymore.

At breakfast, Rosemary was subdued but everyone was a little off that morning. Many were under the influence of things they'd only recently been injected with. Tate was finally up and moving around again but even he had been sluggish when she'd tried to talk to him about the show and riot.

The day had ground slowly on. Violet worked in the bakery but she was too drained to be very productive. The nuns overseeing the patients weren't in any better moods. They snapped and shoved and, in one man's case, sent him back to the ward after he dropped his rolling pin for a third time.

Violet didn't see Rosemary at lunch. That was somewhat unusual but not unprecedented. The young woman's memory for her surroundings had gotten steadily more erratic, so her visits to the padded isolation cell had increased. She wasn't to be found in the common room after lunch, either. When Violet suggested Rosemary was in the quiet room, John told her he'd had cleaning duty in the isolation cells that morning. Every cell was full, but Rosemary wasn't in one of them.

That's when Violet started to worry for her friend. Tate tried to reassure her, but he knew doctors like Heath lurked in the asylum and that knowledge undermined his ability to sell the comfort convincingly. He had told her some of the horrors he'd witnessed in the man's private ward and they both knew there was a chance Rosemary had ended up there—or someplace worse.

No one said anything about Rosemary's absence at dinner. It was like any other disappearance in Briarcliff: Either the missing person would turn up or they wouldn't. Until then there wasn't anything anyone could do.

After dinner, Violet went with Tate back to his room where she read to him from a book of short stories her dad had sent her. The anthology was a collection of faerie tales, the oldest versions of the classics. The first couple were pretty straight-forward but the story of Beauty and the Beast was much darker than the version Violet was familiar with, involving blood magic. She read the story aloud to Tate, crowded into his cot with him, till staff came to run her out for the night.

She ignored Carl's warning about getting too friendly with the 'resident psycho killer' when he took her back to her room. Rosemary was still absent when they got there. Violet curled up on the mattress on the floor that she called her bed and started in on an equally morbid rendition of Rapunzel, to keep her mind occupied by something other than her roommate. She was soon engrossed, oblivious the sounds of Briarcliff. Which was the whole point behind reading: To escape.

The scrape of the door's hinges brought the teen up out of the dark faerie tale and she looked up with a welcoming smile for her roommate. Only the person who shuffled in wasn't her roommate. It was one of the male patients, one she'd seen around but didn't know his name. He was an older man with wild salt-and-pepper hair. He wore a wrinkled pair of asylum-issue pants and stained button-down shirt. His whiskers had grown in over the day, making him look even more unkempt. He looked at Violet with a dull, glazed expression.

"That's a book," he mumbled.

Violet could tell he wasn't talking to her. She closed the book and kept both hands on it. "You're not supposed to be in here. Get out."

The man glanced at her then looked back at the book she was holding. He shuffled closer.

Violet thought about warning him again but she had no patience for such shit after spending the past couple of days stressed to the max. In a blink she was on her feet. "Get OUT!"

She raised the book then and slapped the man upside the face with it. He was too drugged or crazy to duck; the hardcover connected solidly and audibly. He stepped back, stunned. Violet immediately pressed the attack, hitting him again, harder. He stumbled back toward the door, numbly lifting an arm in a weak attempt to shield himself from the additional whacks the girl delivered with the book.

"Security!" Violet bellowed as she drove the man back out into the hall with a violent rain of blows.

Each time she hit him, she felt a surge of satisfaction followed by an instant bloom of renewed rage. Her anger fed on the violence. It was rewarded when red started to flow from the staggering man's nose.

She would have kept battering him but three orderlies were suddenly there. Even though she'd hollered for them, their arrival surprised her. Time had slowed for her; calling for help felt like an eternity ago. Allain and Byron grabbed the man. Patrick was there as well and he took hold of one of Violet's arms. She could tell he was ready to give her the full bear hug if she didn't settle down so she played it cool, even though she was still amped up with the urge to assault the patient more.

"Thanks," she said and offered a shaky smile to the tall orderly. "He just barged in. Scared the hell out of me."

She was exaggerating—she had been mad, not afraid—but it was close enough to the truth that it worked. Patrick's expression relaxed some and he let go of her.

"Don't worry. He won't bother you again tonight," he said. "He'll have a nice, long nap in solitary."

Indeed, the other two staff members were hustling the intruder away, down the hall.

Violet looked at Patrick curiously. "I thought the quiet rooms were all full."

The orderly arched a brow at her. "Where'd you hear that?"

She didn't want to name her source but she knew how the information game at Briarcliff worked. You didn't get something for nothing, and she would only hurt herself by alienating the orderly by being evasive. "John was on cleaning duty today. He said Rosemary wasn't in any of the quiet rooms."

Pat rubbed the back of his neck and shot an uncomfortable glance down the hall, in the direction his coworkers had gone. "There are other places patients can be kept." He looked back down at the teen girl. "Rosemary's not in any of them. You need to get back to your room now. It's lights out."

Violet stared at him. "You can't just drop that and then send me to bed."

"Yes," he said. He took her by the upper arm and steered her toward her cell. "I can. It's lights out."

She went but she wasn't happy. Especially since he kept his hand on her the whole time. "Where is she? At least tell me that."

Patrick released her once she was fully in the small room then immediately turned to leave. She watched him go, outrage building as the opportunity for him to help her slipped further away with each step he took.

"Don't be a dick!" she flared.

She regretted it instantly but he surprised her when he paused at the door and looked back. His expression was strained. "She's gone."

"Gone?" Violet crowded after him but he stepped outside and pulled the iron door shut. So she crowded up to the little barred window set into the door instead. "Wait! What do you mean, gone? Did she escape?"

The orderly leaned in close to the window and when he spoke, his voice was low. Meant for her only. "She didn't escape. Sister Jude's got this place locked up tighter than Fort Knox after what happened on Halloween. The Monsignor's sending a team out early tomorrow to drag the mill pond."

The teen blinked rapidly, digesting that. Then she registered the look on his face and, to cut short any regret he might have about telling her, she said: "Jewel's been stealing Play-doh from the arts-and-crafts room, to eat in her room at night. She stashes it under her boobs."

The man snorted a soft laugh. "Max can have the honors of _that_ BCS." Pat got serious then. "Be careful. All right?"

The buzzer sounded and the doors all locked. The lights popped off and the twilight lights in the hall came on, washing everything sickly blue.

"Yeah. You too," Violet told Patrick's shadowy outline.

She moved away from the door and went back over to her mattress. She burrowed under the blanket and lay there in the customary lump she'd taken to assuming in order to fight off the cold. It dawned on her that she could sleep on the bed, at least until Rosemary came back.

Looking over at the cot as her eyes grew accustomed to the dark, she found she didn't want to move to the bed. It felt disrespectful. Wrong. Like she was acknowledging the possibility that her roommate might genuinely be gone, possibly dead, and not just locked away in some secret ward.

Either outcome was too awful to think about at the moment. It was too cold, too dark, and the encounter with the strange man too recent. She permitted herself use of her friend's blanket simply because it was so frosty on the floor. She was sure Rosemary would understand the borrowing. Violet would give it right back if the other girl came back to their room. It would be nice and warm for her, even.

That thought helped Violet sleep.

...

* * *

Author's Note:

Talk about armed with knowledge.

We've heard from the girls. Next time, it's the boys' turn.


	3. Chapter 3 - The Boys

...

Another cold storm poured down that night. Thunder rumbled low and long, in menacing growls that were felt more than heard. There was little lightning to break up the hissing black downpour. Frost crept up the dark window panes on the outside of Mott Manor. The stately mansion stood sentry against the cold November rain, its proud eaves spiked with the jagged beginnings of icicles.

Inside, it was warm and snug. Gloria's bedroom was spacious, with a large fireplace where coals burned low and cast a red glow over the cream-colored furnishings. The lady of the house slept in the center of the king sized bed; a position she'd grown used to while sharing her bed with a husband and a needy little boy. She slept alone now in her lacy peignoir. She wore a white satin sleep mask. Her blonde hair was caught up in a frilly sleeping cap.

It had taken time to adjust to sleeping in the big house entirely alone, after Dandy was locked up. She still wasn't entirely at ease and slept lightly despite the light-blocking mask. It was a shift in the air that woke her that night: A noticeable drop in temperature accompanied by a cold, rain-scented breeze.

Something was wrong.

She sat up and plucked off the mask. She didn't have to search for the source of the disturbance. He stood between her bed and the fireplace, a dark and imposing silhouette.

Soaked and shivering from the freezing rain, Dandy was still wearing his fancy director's outfit, though two days of wear over rough terrain in bad weather had ruined it. His clown makeup was mostly gone and his dark hair was plastered to his head. The scars on his cheeks were impossible to ignore but it was the way he stared at her that made Gloria's heart leap to her throat.

"Dandy!" she gasped around the lump.

The word seemed to bring him to life. "Mother."

He stalked to the end of the bed and dropped his hands on the polished wooden end. He had a big butcher knife in one hand and it clattered against the footboard. Even in the dark she could see the intense way he stared. She could feel it, too. It was a predator's gaze.

She fought the urge to cower. She didn't want him to feel rejected, for fear that it might incite him to use the knife. Thunder rumbled outside and a gust of wind lifted the sheer curtains, showing the wide open French door that led to the veranda, through which Dandy had entered. Gloria never locked it; she'd never had reason to before, naively thinking herself safe in her grand estate.

"Dandy," she repeated, flailing for something to say. "You're home!"

He smiled but the sinister look didn't leave his dark eyes. "Yes, Mother. I'm home." His fingers flexed on the knife handle. "You did a bad thing, Mother. A very bad thing."

Gloria's hand crept up to her throat. "Dandy...!"

He straightened suddenly and paced around to the side of the bed. "But!" He pointed the large knife at her, not like a weapon; like a showman's baton. "I forgive you."

She blinked furiously to stave off tears of confusion and fear. "You do?"

He smiled and even with the grime and scars he looked beautiful to her. Like an angel, in the Biblical sense: Amazing and terrifying.

"I do, Mother," he said imperiously. "That is, I _will_. But you have to do something for me first. You don't just _get_ forgiveness. You have to earn it."

Gloria feigned a smile. "Of course, sweetheart. Whatever you want."

Dandy smiled back at her; a wickedly cunning smile. "I want you to buy Briarcliff for me."

...

Tate could barely contain his excitement as he carried the box over to Dr. Thredson's couch. The container was already open, of course, as it had been searched by the mail room staff. But the inspected contents were all his.

"It's from your mother," the doctor said. It was a needless clarification since Tate had no other living relatives to send him anything.

The teen pulled an old tan sweater from the box first and shook it out to its full length. Unfolded, it was even uglier. Wrinkled, outdated. Thredson had no appreciation for the garment. His patient's attachment to it was interesting to him, though. The boy looked like he was getting a much-wanted Christmas present. He even gave the old thing a hug before setting it aside so he could inspect the rest of the contents.

"My mom's a real bitch, but she sometimes really knocks one out of the park," he said blithely as he sifted through some more clothes. All familiar items that smelled like home. He hadn't realized how much he missed that smell till just then. "When do you think I can see her?"

Oliver thought about Constance and how she was presently bound to the bed in his basement. "Do you think you're ready to see her?"

Tate looked up from inspecting a brand new spiral notebook in the box. He hadn't really thought about what he would say if he did see his mother. Or what she might say. Thinking about it now killed his joy. She wouldn't hit him. Not where so many people could see. But he didn't think she would be nice. He tried to remember the last time he saw her but the tangle of memories that flooded in confused him. Memories of the clock tower. He frowned and looked back down into the box.

"No," he admitted in a grumpy way. His good mood was spoiled by stupid reality. "I guess not." He looked over at the doctor again, lower lip pooching out in a slight pout. "Is she mad at me?"

The therapist smiled reassuringly. "I don't think she would have sent a care package if she was." The care package was actually something Thredson had assembled from things he'd taken from Tate's bedroom during the break-in but that white lie hardly mattered compared to the bigger picture. "I've spent some time with your mother. She's a troubled person, Tate, but she loves you."

The teen chewed on the cuticle of his left thumb, disturbed. The medication was making him think too slow for his liking but the fact that the doctor had acknowledged Constance was crazy gave him pause. Tate had never heard anyone but himself say that.

The doctor also said Constance loved her son. Tate didn't want to believe that but deep-down, he knew that in her own warped way, she did love him. He'd never understood her love or why it was so demanding. Why he had to be this way or do that thing in order to keep her love. Or why her love came with so much pain and fear attached to it.

"What are you thinking, Tate?" Dr. Thredson prompted gently.

The words poked a hole in Tate's defenses. His eyes got all watery and his nose burned with the sudden rush of emotion. "I was just wondering why love has to hurt."

He tried to laugh but that just made a fat tear fall out of his eye. That broke the dam, freeing the rest. It was a silent, emotionless cry. He didn't bother to wipe away the tears either. He just let them drip off his jaw and dry in cool tracks over his cheeks.

"Love shouldn't hurt. It's a complicated thing, though, and some people never latch onto how to show it in a healthy way." The doctor gave him a moment to collect himself. Then: "What do you know about your grandparents?"

Tate sniffled wetly. "I d'know." Then he thought about it. "Mama said she was from Virginia... but her parents died before she got married." He thought more and frowned. "I don't know about my dad's side. She never told me."

"People tend to be products of their environment," said Thredson. He lit a cigarette and offered it to his patient. "It would make sense that she would have learned her parental skills from her own parents. Most parents try to do better than what they had, in fact; even people from homes the rest of us would consider 'perfect'."

Tate took the cigarette and sucked on it. "What're your parents like, Doctor Thredson?"

Oliver hesitated. "Let's stay on topic."

"That is on topic," the teen debated. "We're talking about parents and how people are products of parenting. You had parents, right?"

Thredson's expression went flat. "No."

Tate's eyes rounded and he had the grace to look sheepish. "Oh. Shit. Wow. I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

"It's all right," the doctor said, quickly reassembling his professional demeanor. "It's not a subject I'm opposed to discussing, but this isn't the time or place for it. If you're done looking through your care package there is something else I would like to talk to you about."

Glad to have a way out of that unfortunate subject, Tate perked up and set the box aside. "Yeah. Sure. What is it?" He was hoping for permission to go to the library but he didn't dare say it aloud because that would make it not come true.

"Have you heard of patient assistants?"

Tate suffered a mild moment of letdown when the library wasn't mentioned but then his curiosity piqued again. "Yeah. Why?"

Thredson smiled and lit a cigarette for himself. He pushed the ashtray closer to the center of the small end table so they could both reach it. "I'd like you to start working as my assistant. I have an enormous amount of clerical work to do and I don't have time for it. You'd be paid three cents an hour, the same as the bakery."

The money didn't matter to Tate since it wasn't like he was going to spend it in Briarcliff. He was interested in the freedom. "Clerical work? I'd have to do religious stuff?"

"Paperwork," Thredson corrected. "Filing, mostly. Copy work. Dictation."

"Dictation," repeated Tate, emphasizing the 'dick' part with a snicker.

The doctor fixed him with a look. "Do you want the job? Or do you want to make dirty jokes?"

Tate wanted to petition for both but he could tell Dr. Thredson was not in the mood to play around. He usually wasn't but the guy seemed more serious than normal that day. Not wanting the chance to slip by, he decided to behave. "Yeah, I want the job. Of course I do."

"Wonderful," said the doctor with a smile. "You'll start Wednesday. Instead of going to the bakery, you'll be brought here."

Again, stupid reality reared up. If he wasn't working in the bakery, Tate would see Violet less. "Can't I do both jobs?"

"No," said Dr. Thredson peevishly.

Tate recognized the tone and made a face. He didn't want to make the doctor mad but he also didn't want to give up time with his girlfriend. He was too high to figure out how to get what he wanted, though. That being the case, he settled for smoothing the doc's ruffled feathers.

"That's cool," he said dismissively. "No big deal."

The backpedaling worked: Dr. Thredson nodded and made some notes. "Wednesday, then," he reiterated. Then he checked his watch. "Session's almost over but there's still time for self therapy, if you wish."

Tate chewed his lip and had to think about that question too. Thinking was taking way too much effort. He wanted to leave assured that he was on the doctor's good side and it didn't feel like he was. But he knew the right response would help. "Yeah. Sounds good."

...

* * *

Author's Note:

Dr. Thredson's got one heckuva poker face. Except where it comes to that sweater. I think a little Chad slipped out there.

I originally had planned to have Chad in this Season, not Thredson. I even wrote a preliminary scene introducing him as a patient of Ben's. I'm not quite sure when I switched gears but Thredson had a bigger story to tell, so he won out. Constance/Sister Jude is the only character who has a doppleganger in the story.

Next chapter: Briarcliff catches some of the escapees and she's not kind to her wayward children on their return. Find out who's been caught next time.


	4. Chapter 4 - Electroshock

In order to keep the Halloween escapes quiet, the church had to send in their own recovery team. Petitioning his superiors to intervene was hardly ideal but to Reverend Monsignor Howard it was better than having the matter turn into a media circus—and the bishop agreed.

They were able to locate and bring back two of the three escapees. The third they found but could do nothing about immediately as he was securely hidden in his family home. Extricating him without making a scene would be virtually impossible. But as long as he stayed put inside the mansion, he wasn't likely to cause problems that they could anticipate.

Shelly was taken without resistance at the motel room she was sharing with Boyd, who put up more of a fight but was likewise subdued. Both were brought back to Briarcliff where they were sent to different wings of the hospital. Boyd went to Heath's ward. Shelly was sent to Dr. Pennhurst, who signed a few papers and had her gurneyed off for electroshock.

The treatment was traditionally used to treat depressed and suicidal patients but, at Briarcliff, the ECT machinery was used to subdue and punish patients more often than it was used to treat them. Shelly had never gone through electroshock but she had seen plenty of patients who had. She was scared but she tried to keep that fear hidden. She didn't want the staff to know she was afraid. Her brave front was the only thing she had.

Though the hospital had been laboring under staff shortage, there was no shortage of hands to haul her from the gurney to the table where they strapped her down again. This time metal headgear was belted to her head. Someone shoved a hard rubber bit into her mouth. It tasted like sewage smelled. She retched behind the bit but firm hands held it in place till the straps were secure. Then they were putting an apparatus at her temples, two cloth-covered nodes that pressed snugly.

Shelly's heart was already racing when the doctor hit the switch that sent 200 volts of electricity through her brain. The lights dimmed, then brightened again when Dr. Pennhurst finally killed the power eighty excruciating seconds later. By that time Shelly was so scrambled, she couldn't do anything but lay there in a daze. Someone pulled the bit out of her mouth then Sister Jude came into her blurry field of vision. The nun inspected her face at close range, seizing her jaw to turn her head this way and that before releasing her roughly.

"Make sure she's cleaned up and locked in her room," she told the doctor. She outranked Pennhurst at Briarcliff, something she knew didn't sit well with the man. It gave her pleasure to order him about.

The nun left then, her long skirt swishing with her brisk steps. Dr. Pennhurst wrote on his clipboard then he, too, left. He wouldn't challenge Sister Jude openly but he felt cleaning patients was beneath him. Alone with just Nurse Karen, Shelly lay there in a daze. She wasn't afraid. All she could feel was the warm hum under her skin left by extreme exposure to electricity. She was numb down to the bone apart from that humming, physically and emotionally.

"Where's Doctor Pennhurst?" Dr. Heath's voice floated somewhere above her.

"He already left," said the nurse, also somewhere nearby.

Shelly felt a prick as the nurse gave her some sort of sedative that took the edge off the electric vibration. Her muscles relaxed and she began to feel her arms and legs again. She let her head loll to the side and found she could see the doctor and nurse over to her left.

The nurse dropped the hypodermic into the hazardous waste bin and stripped her gloves. Dr. Heath moved in then, crowding into the young woman's personal space in a way that cornered her against the locked supply cabinet. The brunette nurse looked up at the doctor with a mixture of interest and intimidation.

"So it's just you and me," the doctor said. His deep voice was like a panther's purr. Or a preamble to a growl.

"Yes, doctor."

Heath pressed closer, putting a hand on her breast. Then he leaned in and kissed her. In another minute, he had her skirt hiked up, panties shoved aside, cock inside her. It was a sloppy, heated affair; over in just a few minutes more. It brought the young brunette no pleasure except the satisfied smile her employer gave her when he pulled out of her.

He left shortly after and the nurse returned to her cleanup duty, starting with herself. Nurse Karen hummed as she turned her attention back to Shelly, thinking of how being the man's lover would raise her status in the employment ranks. She'd already been taken off bedpan duty and was allowed as many breaks as she wanted, so long as she was available when needed. And she always was.

She fancied herself in love with Dr. Heath. She was enamored with his confidence and skill as a surgeon. She was sure if she kept on the path she was on, she'd eventually be made head nurse. Then, the doctor wouldn't be embarrassed to be seen dating her openly. Perhaps they would be married someday and run the asylum together, under the watchful eye of the Church.

She had big plans but she shared none of them with Shelly. She just shoved a pile of clean clothes at the dazed patient once she'd stripped and sponge bathed her.

"Get up," she said. "Get dressed. It's time to go back to the commons."

Time evaporated for Shelly once she managed to get her clothing on. Bits and pieces of existence floated in and out, like she was waking up from the same dream, over and over, each time in a whole new place. The common room flashed by and the mezzanine. Bedtime was suddenly on her and her teeth tasted of toothpaste, though she had no memory of the communal trip to the bathroom.

More time disappeared and it was morning. Breakfast swam by then it was time for her to see the therapist.

—

With the staff shortage, none of the doctors had time on their schedules to evaluate Shelly. It didn't take Sister Jude long to grudgingly agree that Dr. Harmon should take the overflow cases, starting with Shelly's.

The trip to the children's ward was a surreal experience. Shelly had never been to that section of the property before. Allain took her by way of the tunnels, keeping a hand on her to steady her. She was still in a fog as they moved through the dark, dank corridors, barely aware of her surroundings. Up a dusty flight of gray stairs they went, through an unmarked, rusty door. Then they were suddenly in light again.

Momentarily blinded, Shelly tried to pause to let her eyes adjust, but Allain just tugged her along. He left her in a tiny closet of an office, the walls of which were mostly hidden behind piled up folders of documents and boxes. Ben had cleared the center of the space so the desk had room for him to function around it. He was seated behind the desk and Shelly was deposited in the lone chair in front of the desk before Allain retreated.

"Hello, Shelly," Ben greeted. He had her case before he was busted down the kids' ward so he was familiar with her background already.

She blinked slowly, knowing it was her turn to say something, but she couldn't quite sort out what.

Ben laced his fingers atop his desk and studied the young woman. Ordinarily she would have been hitting on him by now. He didn't condone the behavior but it saddened him to see her personality so skewed by a single shock treatment.

"How are you feeling?" he tried.

She licked her lips and rolled her eyes to the side but the answer wasn't anywhere over there. "Thirsty."

"Thirsty?" Ben echoed. He glanced around. All he had was a cup of coffee. "I can get you some water."

He lifted the receiver of the rotary phone and dialed the nurse's station. He put in a request for a pitcher of water and a cup, then assessed his patient again.

"I know you're not feeling too hot right now," he said gently. "So we're not going to get into why you ran away. But I want to know... Was it your idea?"

She licked her lips again. Her mouth tasted like the bitter rubber of the bit. A cigarette would help but she couldn't find the words to express her desire. So she answered his question instead. "No."

"Was it Dandy's idea?"

Shelly hesitated. Then: "Yes."

He wrote something on the paper pad he had in front of him. "Thank you, Shelly."

...

Timothy was braced for just about anything when Heather was brought to his office. He had seen her at her initial assessment during intake but most of his acquaintance with her was through the pictures that ran in the newspaper.

"Hello, Heather," he greeted from behind his desk in a warm and gentle tone.

One of the orderlies led her over to his desk where she hesitated before taking a seat in one of the two chairs before it. The orderly shot a questioning look at the Monsignor, who ever so slightly shook his head. He didn't need the orderly to stay with them. The girl was visibly frail and had never acted out during her stay, as far as the hospital records showed.

"Hi," Heather responded after a brief look around the room from where she sat. She focused on the priest, looking at him as though seeing him for the first time.

Timothy got up from his seat and came around to the front of desk. "How are you?"

She smiled a crooked little smile. "People keep asking me that. I feel fine, sir."

The Reverend Monsignor paused, trying to decide how best to maneuver through the delicate situation. He was no psychologist but he was a smart man. "Your friend Billie Dean said you haven't been quite yourself lately."

Something sparked in Heather's pale blue eyes that startled the Monsignor. It was just a flicker of an expression that vanished almost instantly but he'd seen it. It was a surprised sort of guilt; like a child caught drawing on the wall.

He knew then he wasn't talking to Heather. He also realized he owed his cousin an apology but he had no time to dwell on that. Whatever was in the teenager sitting before him needed to be identified and abolished.

"I was sick the other day," the girl said, looking down at her hands. "But I'm okay now. A lot of people got sick after the blackout."

Timothy pressed his lips together briefly. Then he put on a smile. "Yes. I suppose you're right about that."

He thought about pressing the entity but he was completely unprepared to deal with a possession. He would need time to prepare. So he decided to change tactics.

"Have you given any thought to what you might want to do once you're a legal adult?"

Heather tipped her head curiously. "What do you mean?"

Timothy found that response odd. It was a pretty straight forward question. "When you turn eighteen, you'll be discharged from Briarcliff but only if you demonstrate you can provide for yourself." He knew this had been explained to her before but put the lapse down to the entity possessing her. He had no idea what drugs she'd been given during her stay so didn't take that into account. "You'll need a job if you're going to be able to take care of yourself."

Heather blinked at him. Then she nibbled her lower lip and looked down at her hands again. She thought for a moment then looked back up at him, squinting a little in thought. "Couldn't I just get married?"

Timothy's brows inched up. "Who would you marry, pray tell?"

Heather shifted. "I don't know," she admitted.

"You need to think about what you want to do," he counseled. "The Church can help you find a position someplace, and housing, but it will be on you to do the work."

She looked down at her lap again. She didn't like this conversation. "I guess I want to be a... a..." She couldn't think of anything that sounded fun. "A model." That sounded fun and easy.

The Monsignor had to take a moment to process that. "I... don't know if that's possible."

"You said I needed to pick a job," the girl said, frustrated and close to whining. "I picked one."

The priest considered rejecting her decision but she wasn't a patient exactly. She was free to pursue whatever career she wished, even if it wouldn't get her out of the asylum. And with all the media attention Briarcliff had lately, photographers were in ready supply. He knew several would jump at the chance to photograph the waifish newspaper sensation in a different way. It might even bring some money into the asylum.

"Fine," he said with a smile he didn't feel. "I happen to know a photographer or two. I'll see if I can get one to come here for a shoot."

...

* * *

Author's Note:

Happy Halloween month!

I've been gorging myself on horror this season. Every chance I get. I've got American Horror Story playing in the background as I type. Murder House. Yes, again. I've been watching new stuff too. But I can't resist my faves at this time of year.

Next chapter: The asylum shows its dark side. That's all I'm gonna say. Did I mention I've been watching a lot of horror lately?


	5. Chapter 5 - Lady Parts

((For best results, play the following song on Youtube: watch?v=XjvjbriIDvs&t=5960s))

...

Billie Dean stirred and opened her eyes. The first thing she saw was concrete. She felt the cold hardness of it and realized she was laying on the floor, on her stomach. She lifted her head and looked around. She was in a room twice as big as her cell, a storage space filled with dusty boards and rusty metal drums. Everything was a uniform drab dark brown in hue. The only light came from a weak, flickering bulb over by the only door out of the room.

Billie Dean sat up and her head started to hurt. She traced the source to a tender spot near her temple where she felt a large lump growing. She traced her fingers lightly over the injury and winced. Fear set in then. The last thing she remembered, she was on laundry duty. She'd been worrying about Heather's meeting with Timothy.

She got to her feet and crept closer to the door. Thinking back, she remembered seeing one of Rosemary's combs on the floor and she had bent to pick it up.

That was her last memory before waking.

She paused with a hand on the door handle. She tried to hear through the door but either it was quiet on the other side or the metal was too thick to hear through. She froze up. Whoever put her there could be right outside. She wasn't sure she was ready for a physical confrontation. But what choice did she have? She couldn't stay in the room and wait for her fate.

She took a deep breath and screwed up her courage. There was nothing in the room that could serve as a weapon so she readied herself with the idea that she might need to kill someone bare-handed. She planned to go for the eyes and throat.

When she pushed on the door, it opened with a faint creak. She froze in the strip of light that came through. When nothing happened, she peeked through. The slight opening didn't afford much of a view; all she could see was the floor and a dingy wall. After a few agonizing seconds of waiting without seeing or hearing anything, the frightened woman carefully pushed the door wider, stopping when she could poke her head out for a better look.

The light from the hall was coming through large windows across the way from the door. There were four of them and they started about a foot above the floor and went nearly to the ceiling. The sun coming in told Billie Dean it must be about noon. She'd been on laundry duty during the late morning so she mustn't have been unconscious for long.

Emerging into the hall, she could see several wheeled hospital beds in the hall, haphazardly positioned and covered in thick, white dust. The floor was covered in the same powdery substance. Footprints were evident in the dust, some older than others. The freshest went directly to the room she just came out of.

The hallway terminated in a wall to her left; there was no way out that way. There were other doors along the wall and they all looked similar to door of the room she'd come out of. She didn't expect any of them led to an exit. That left only the hall to her right: The direction the freshest footprints lay in.

She looked around for something to arm herself with but there was nothing helpful in the hallway. The windows were reinforced with steel mesh fused inside the glass. While they were made to be opened, they would only do so a few inches: Just enough to let in fresh air but not enough to permit escape. Billie Dean had seen the same locking mechanism on the windows of the common room. No help there either.

She advanced down the hall, toward the intersection at the far end, where the shadows took over. The sound of the building settling startled her and made her stop for a moment. She listened, all senses keened, but when nothing else happened she made herself keep going.

It was strange to be so afraid in broad daylight. All the scary stories she'd read as a teen would have the reader fear the dark but daylight wasn't proof against nightmares. If anything, the bright sunlight coming through the large, dusty windows made her feel exposed; vulnerable.

Billie Dean had never empathized with a cockroach before but suddenly found herself understanding what it must be like for one crossing a kitchen floor when the overhead halogens come on. She found herself scurrying toward the shadowy corridor at the end, the urge to hide growing to near-panic by the time she got there.

She paused for a moment in the dim recess and told herself to calm down. She was letting fear take control and she couldn't let that happen. Briarcliff was too dangerous for her to lose it. Steeling her resolve, she kept going, leaving the bright room behind for the shadowy, more narrow back hall.

The hallway smelled stale and old. The medium could see more light at the far end of the hall, amber in tone and flickering slightly. Moving as quietly as she could, she moved to the end and peeked around the corner. She was greeted with another long hallway that stretched off into darkness. She could see doors lining the walls on either side; it looked like a ward, similar to the one she stayed in.

Timidly she entered the corridor and started down it, hugging herself and wishing again that she had something to defend herself with. She slowed as she passed the first doors. They were positioned directly across from one another, just like the ones in her ward. They had the same sort of window-set doors.

Curious, she went to the one on the right and peeked in but it was too dark to see anything. The whole wing felt deserted. It was silent save for the distant sounds of the building settling. She didn't believe the impression though. Someone had put her here and that someone was most likely still close by.

Experimentally, Billie Dean tried the door. It was locked. The next one down was locked too. She'd considered hiding in one for a while but that didn't seem like an option. So she pressed on. It wasn't long before she arrived at the nurse's station. Like the rest of the area so far, the station was neglected and covered in dust. It hadn't been cleared out: The old-fashioned telephone was still there and there was a clipboard with patient paperwork still on the counter. It was like the nurse left for a break and never came back.

Billie Dean hugged herself and looked around, wide-eyed in the dimly lit room. The amber light was coming from a small emergency fixture in the ceiling above the nurse's station. The hallway branched out in four directions from there, including the one she came from. Based on what she'd seen and what she already knew of Briarcliff's layout, she reasoned that she'd come from some sort of day room for the wing. This might even be the hospital's old tuberculosis ward.

She registered a rattling sound to her right that was coming closer. It sounded like a cart or something rolling. Fear gripped her and she panicked. She couldn't go that way and she knew there was no escape the way she came. That left only two options. Either was just as likely to lead to a dead end but maybe one would offer a weapon of some sort.

Moving as quickly and quietly as she could, Billie Dean darted down the right hall. She passed a few doors marked with signs she couldn't make out in the dim light. The position of the rooms wouldn't help her, being all interior and likely offices or storage. She kept going down to the end of the hall where two large doors blocked the way. She pushed on one and was relieved to find it swung open easily and silently.

She ducked into the room beyond. The illumination from the backup lights washed everything in the cluttered area in sickly orange. She wasn't sure what sort of bizarre apparatus stood before her, blocking her way, but it was big.

There was a bed frame and mattress in the center of the thing. A wooden frame had been constructed around it to support several wires and tubes. A metal framework along the outside held withered bags and hoses. There was a huge machine of some sort near the head of the 'bed' that had a wide dial on it with a red needle buried at 0. To the left of the 'bed', another exactly like it was positioned, head to head with the first. Several more were positioned behind and to either side of them, each set with its own big machine.

The whole thing was very creepy. The big machines resembled the ones Billie Dean had seen as a little girl. They reminded her of radiation. But in order to explore the darkened back portion of the room, she would have to pass the machines. She didn't want to do that, but there might be a way out back there, or a weapon. Someplace to hide.

So she started back, between two of the sets of weird beds. The light overhead sputtered, producing the illusion that there was something moving in the back of the room. Billie Dean paused, spooked. Was it an illusion? Or was that one of Briarcliff's unfriendly spirits?

She couldn't just stand there indefinitely. Forward or back; neither choice was ideal but she pushed on ahead, into the gloom. She was just about to pass the second row of strange beds when a soft sound behind her betrayed a presence.

Billie Dean didn't have time to turn completely before the person's hands were on her, grabbing her, but she managed to twist around in their grasp till she was facing them. The man was head and shoulders taller than she, thin but not malnourished. He wore a stained old patient's uniform that was tattered and smelled like a bathroom. His face was partially covered by a surgeon's mask that looked relatively new.

"You're not supposed to be awake yet," he rasped. He sounded like an old man who'd been smoking cigars all his life but he didn't look older than 40, if he was that old.

"Let go of me!" Billie Dean shouted.

She kicked at him but couldn't score with the wild, close-range blows, so she reached for his face to claw at his eyes. He pulled his head back but couldn't go far without letting go of her, and he didn't want to do that. Her nails weren't carefully manicured any longer: Many had jagged edges and she sunk them into his face.

He grabbed one of her wrists and pulled her hand back but she wouldn't let go. To her horror, the skin she gripped came loose from the bone, leaving her with a hand of dripping mess, like warm plastic wrap pulled from a microwaved casserole. She dropped the grisly flesh with a strangled cry of disgust. Panic drove her into a wild flurry of a struggle, but the man held tight despite his bleeding face. The surgeon's mask came loose, held on only by one ear loop. His mouth was a vile sneer.

Her assailant forced her to the ground and ripped at her dress with his free hand. She struggled but he was bigger and stronger than she was, so she tried for his face again, this time punching. She was using her off-hand though and contact with the slippery exposed viscera didn't seem to faze the man. She felt his hand go up her skirt and paw at her undergarments.

"HELP!" she screamed.

The sound echoed strangely in the disused room, as did the sounds of their struggle. There was no one near to hear her. If she didn't do something, things were going to get very bad. So she did what she could. She opened her mind to the spirit world and sent that same cry into the darkness of the other side.

She saw immediately that the man atop her was being ridden by an entity, much like Heather was. The thing on him was living shadow and the reason the man's skin was so thin. Seeing it for what it was terrified her and she knew instantly she'd made a mistake.

—

The psychic signal the medium sent out was like blood in the ocean. Dark things responded to the helpless cry, drawn to the promise of a fresh victim. The possessed man had penetrated her by the time the first one arrived, rutting and grunting like a boar despite the way Billie Dean struggled.

When she saw the double doors swing open on their silent hinges she stilled, thinking at first that she was saved. Then she saw the thing that lumbered in and her heart stuttered with terror. The hulking thing was as tall as the door frame and it had to hunch a bit to get into the room. The beast's legs were trunk-like, fat stumps with knobbily knees that made it lurch when it walked. Its arms were disproportionately long and as it drew closer, Billie Dean could see it was naked and very male.

Another layer of fear bloomed for the psychic and she renewed her struggles. The possessed man didn't care; he just thrust harder, nearing orgasm. Billie Dean wanted to scream but fear paralyzed her when the abomination shambled right up to them.

It stood there for a moment, watching the man rape her, then it reached over with a mitt-like hand and seized his head. The man stopped his rutting. The creature squeezed and the man grabbed at the monstrous hand that circled his head. The possessed man wasn't strong enough to break the thing's grip; soon blood trickled from his nose, shiny black in the dim light.

Some dripped on Billie Dean and she she recovered her senses enough to scramble back, away from them both. She scrabbled to her feet and ducked around the creature while it was still preoccupied with the man. She hit the double doors full-tilt and ran like she'd never run before. Dreadful thoughts of those awful things pursuing her spurred her on even after her side began to hurt. She didn't stop running until she found herself in a part of the hospital she recognized.

"Hey!" barked Roman when she darted into the mezzanine. He was one of the less-tolerant orderlies. "You're not supposed to be here!"

The orderly had a young nurse with him, and had the top buttons of her uniform undone. The medium didn't care about either of them beyond their ability to be a physical barrier between her and whatever might be coming after her.

"I got lost," she lied and smiled weakly. She knew how disheveled she must look. "New meds have me..." She twirled a finger near her temple and tried to look even more apologetic.

Roman's expression softened a little and he gave her a longer look, noting her mussed hair and rumpled skirt. It wasn't compassion in his eyes, though. He glanced at the nurse then looked back at Billie Dean. "Get on back to your room," he said. "I'll be doing room check on you later so you'd better be there."

"Of course," Billie Dean said, blinking with the effort to keep the smile on. She didn't like the implied meaning underscoring the man's words.

She beat a hasty retreat then, down the hall and back to the women's ward. She was a wreck by the time she got to her room and she fell onto the cot where she sobbed into her pillow for several minutes. It was a hopeless sort of emotional dump that didn't make her feel any better afterward.

...

 **Later that night...**

"Monsignor! Reverend Monsignor Howard!"

The urgent cry was accompanied by pounding on the door of the man's personal room. It brought him up out of sleep into a panicked, hazy state of almost-awake. He threw on his robe and hurried to the door. He pulled it open to the sight of Sister Mary Eunice in hysterical tears.

"Sister? What is it?" the priest exclaimed, reaching for the distraught young woman.

But she wasn't there for comforting. She grabbed his hand and tried to tug him out into the hall. "They found her! There was a man in the old tuberculosis ward—a patient! There was a patient down in the ward and he's the one who—"

Timothy pulled away from the nun, confused. "Please slow down, Sister. I don't understand what you're saying."

Mary Eunice gave a woeful little cry and gulped a quick breath to steady herself. "They've found Rosemary's body. One of the patients led them—the orderlies—he led them to her body. You've got to come!"

The Reverend's stomach knotted up. He shoved his feet into his shoes without bothering to put on socks. "Where?"

—

It was freezing cold outside. The ground was soaked with recent rain. Thick clouds overhead blotted out the stars. A small group of guards armed with flashlights, a handful of orderlies, and a small assortment of doctors had gathered together behind the greenhouse. With them was a disheveled man in his mid-fifties who was wearing a filthy patient's uniform. His hands were cuffed in front of him and his ankles were also hobbled. He looked like he'd been in a fight recently.

"Monsignor," Sister Jude said, arriving on the scene as well. Mary Eunice had gone to her first but she had taken longer to get changed.

"Jude," the priest greeted and the pair embraced briefly. "What have they found?"

"Didn't Sister Mary Eunice tell you?"

They both looked over at the younger woman, who was keeping her distance now that she'd successfully fetched the Reverend. She didn't want to get too close to the scene. She'd heard what was found; she didn't want to see it.

"She tried," Timothy said diplomatically. "She said Rosemary has been located?"

The older nun nodded and waved a hand in the direction of the cluster of men. "More or less."

"More or less?"

Sister Jude looked dour. "The criminal who killed her cut her up."

Timothy rubbed his eyes with one hand then pinched the bridge of his nose. "I see. I see. So..." He let his hand drop and looked at Sister Jude despondently. "Well."

She pursed her lips. "We can't go to the police."

He sighed and glanced over at the gaggle of people milling about. "No." That was becoming a too-common refrain: Avoiding police involvement. "We'll have Freeman... do his thing."

"Are you sure that'll be enough?"

The priest eyed her, torn between gratitude for her foresight and irritation at being questioned. "We'll send him down to Heath's ward afterward."

She nodded grimly. She didn't like the tunnel ward but, at a time like this, Dr. Heath was useful. "I'll file the paperwork."

She started to move toward the milling group of people but Monsignor Howard caught her elbow. Puzzled, she looked up at him. Thunder grumbled overhead.

"There's a girl. Heather Thompson."

"The one from the cult?" the nun prompted.

The priest nodded. "She's... She's been possessed."

Sister Jude stared at him, searching his expression. She could tell by the worried knot of lines between his brows that he meant what he said. His certainty spread his worry to her. She believed whatever he did.

"What are we going to do?" she asked, a bit breathlessly. Things were getting more bizarre the longer the night wore on.

The priest glanced up at the dark sky when the first cold drops of rain began to patter down. "Pray," he said. Then, looking at her again: "I've been trained to perform exorcisms but I'll need help."

Sister Jude felt her heart leap. "If there's anything I can do..."

Monsignor Howard took one of her hands and clasped it between both of his and looked into her eyes with utmost sincerity. "Ordinarily I would call in another priest who's also been trained but—" He hesitated, not wanting to verbalize how impatient the Church was growing with the shenanigans at Briarcliff.

Sister Jude didn't need him to spell it out for her. "Just tell me what you need from me and I'll do it."

He tried to smile but it was just a flicker of an expression. "I know I can always count on you."

The nun felt her heart flutter again. His confidence made her heady with delight. "Of course you can."

He gave her a gentle squeeze then released her. She curled her hand in against her chest, close to her heart, then headed off toward the dispersing group. Timothy debated leaving then; Jude was more than capable of handling the situation. But others would expect him to be there. So he went, trying to brace himself for whatever lay ahead.

One of the guards stopped Sister Jude. "Sorry," he said in a tone that wasn't at all apologetic. "This is no place for a lady."

She stared at him, momentarily stunned into silence by his presumptuousness. "I run this place!"

The priest put a hand on her shoulder and the nun lost some of her bristle instantly.

"I'm Reverend Monsignor Howard," the clergyman said to the guard. He needed no further introduction; he was the one who signed the man's paychecks. "Sister Jude is with me."

"Be that as it may, yer Holiness," said the guard with more respect in his tone. "But the Sister here don't wanna see this."

The asylum's authority figures exchanged glances. Timothy wanted to allow Sister Jude freedom to fulfill her role as upper staff at Briarcliff, but he had a few old-fashioned leanings. He couldn't in good conscience insist she be shown something that might be traumatizing.

"Wait here a moment," he said to the nun as kindly as he could.

She bit back her frustration and nodded. The Reverend stepped past the guard then and picked his way through the small throng that blocked view of the crime scene.

There was a collection of large terracotta pots near the back outer wall of the greenhouse, one smeared in blood. Dr. Heath was crouched beside it, inspecting a dismembered arm and torso that someone had placed on one of the hospital's sheets. The white cloth stood out starkly against the dark ground, bringing the grisly remains into vivid contrast in their livid morbidity. Dark red blood was smeared across the sheet. It would need to be burned afterward.

As the Monsignor struggled to recover from the shock of seeing pieces of a once-live human woman, he realized something that made him feel ill. "W—Why are there only—only two?"

Dr. Haddonfield was there and he came over to the priest. He was wearing medical gloves but that didn't stop him lighting a cigarette. "That's all he's shown us so far."

"Who is he?"

"A patient. David Duffy," the doctor supplied. "Serial rapist. Never killed anybody before. They found him coming out of the old tuberculosis wing, hollering about wanting to confess to the murder of three of our missing female patients. Looks like somebody beat the hell out of him but he won't say who."

"Three?" the priest echoed, surprised. He glanced back over a shoulder and could see Sister Jude as the orderlies were beginning to head back to the hospital. He looked back to the doctors and nearest guards. "Let's get that covered up. Take it inside if you need to examine it, please."

Dr. Heath flipped the sheet over the ghastly remains and stood up. "We need to find the rest."

The priest nodded and rubbed a hand over his mouth. Too many things were happening at once. "Let's find out what we can from the patient. Get the information... however you must." He glanced at the sheet then looked away. "If you need anything from me, please let me know."

"We should have this handled," Haddonfield assured, glad to have the priest butt out. He was hoping to keep any of the parts they found for further research once the crisis was managed. It would be easier to do that if there were less people involved.

Reverend Monsignor Howard nodded and left them to finish up. He went back over to where Sister Jude was waiting. The sour look on her face cleared when he approached.

"Let's go inside," he said, passing her by without stopping. He knew she would follow. He was counting on it to distract her from the remains.

She went with him, of course. He knew he should tell her what he'd learned from the doctor—he wanted her to know what was going on at Briarcliff, as it was the only way she could act for him when he wasn't available. With the problems at the hospital mounting, he needed her now more than ever. He just had to quell his instinct to shelter her from the dark realities they were facing.

"There are two other victims as well," he said at last. "The missing female patients. The man apparently has an extended history of sex abuse."

The nun made a sound of disgust. "He should be castrated!"

"Agreed," the Reverend said quite seriously. "I'm sure Doctor Freeman can take care of that along with the lobotomy."

"May I handle his atonement before that, Monsignor?"

The priest unlocked the side door of the western ward and waited for the nun to pass before following her inside. The amber lights overhead flickered and made shadows dance on the walls of the narrow gray hall.

"You may, Sister."

...

* * *

Author's Note:

This chapter was influenced by stories of the shadow people and serial killers such as the Atlanta Ripper and the Florence Monster. Silent Hill and The Suffering, two of my favorite video games, also helped shape this installment.

I've had a couple of folks tell me the current season of AHS has reminded them of scenes out of some of my previous fanfics. I haven't been following Season 8 (I have a weird schedule so it's easier to wait and just binge it all when I can) but I appreciate hearing that. Makes me feel good whenever someone ranks my stuff anywhere near the source. Thanks, guys! I love ya!

Next time: The asylum hastily buries the evidence of the Lady Butcher and then it's T-day. Yes, even Briarcliff observes Thanksgiving.


	6. Chapter 6 - Thanksgiving

The next night, Briarcliff held a movie night. The pretext was that it was to make up for the show the blackout had ended early. In reality it was mostly to distract the patients while the murderer was shuffled around. The "Lady Butcher", as some of the staff had taken to calling him, was being transferred from post-op to an isolation cell where Sister Jude took the opportunity to give him a second round with her most vicious cherry wood cane.

Meanwhile, the Reverend Monsignor was anxiously going through the asylum's library and his own personal collection of books for anything that might be helpful in the coming fight against whatever demon had taken possession of Heather Thompson's body.

In the common room, the bright, merry sounds of the feature film covered the incessant drum of the rain on the roof, lulling the audience of patients into a general calm that wasn't shared by the staff. Most of them had heard about the scattered remains that the Lady Butcher had led investigators to, all over the asylum grounds. Three women, carved up into dozens of pieces. It was enough to make even the hardened criminals nervous.

Oblivious to the grisly goings-on, Tate was just happy to be at the movie next to Violet, discreetly holding hands. He had been missing their time together since he'd been working in Thredson's office. It had only been a few days, but days felt like weeks in the asylum.

Not that the work was bad. And the job had come with the unexpected bonus that the doctor had changed Tate's medicine regime. He didn't have to get shots anymore and the pills they were giving him didn't make him nearly as tired all the time.

There was a thin whistle and a sudden sharp pain bloomed in his hand, the one clasping Violet's. The source was Sister Agnes' crop. Violet had been struck too and the pain caused them both to involuntarily let go of each other.

"Hands to yourselves," the nun admonished.

Tate stuffed his hand under his other arm so he wouldn't shake it. He didn't want to give the bitch the satisfaction of his pain. He wondered how she'd even seen them with it being so dark.

The old woman watched them a few moments longer, then kept going on her rounds and he relaxed. Not long after the nun left, Tate felt Violet's hand brush his. A smile dimpled his cheek and he laced fingers with her again, loving her even more than before.

...

The movie was nearing its end when Sister Jude left her meeting with the Monsignor about the results of the rapist's penance. The other patients would be led back to their wards soon for lights out and she wanted to personally inspect the lot of them. With so much sin uncovered at once, she felt the need to clean house.

She was on her way to the common area and considering whether to start with the males or females when she crossed paths with Dr. Thredson. He was coming out of the men's ward at an energetic pace. That was what caught her attention: The man never hurried unless it was an emergency. When he saw her, he slowed to a normal walk and that only made her all the more keen to intercept him.

Thredson couldn't avoid her without it looking strange so he put on a professional smile. "Good evening, Sister."

"Doctor," she acknowledged. "What brings you to the wards at this hour?"

"I wanted to check something in one of my patient's notebooks," he said, thinking up a credible lie quickly. "John takes extensive notes all the time and I was concerned he might have put down some sensitive information about things he might have seen here in recent days. It would be.. unfortunate if something like that fell into the wrong hands."

It was more than sufficient to throw off the nun. The idea alarmed her. "What did you find?"

"He has a very large collection of notebooks," said Thredson. It was true: John had dozens he'd filled with God-knew-what. "I couldn't go through all of them but I did find enough there to warrant further investigation. I was going to ask the Reverend Monsignor if I could have the lot of them brought to my office."

"Monsignor Howard is indisposed," Sister Jude said. "However, I can grant you the authority to seize the diaries. Take Byron to help you carry them. He's at the nurse's station."

The doctor thanked her for her assistance and headed to the nurse's station to follow through so he could cover his lie. Sister Jude continued on to the commons where she oversaw the herding of the patients. She started inspection with the women's side, then the men's. She found several infractions on both sides, and found several patients to punish. It was late by the time she finished beating the chronic masturbator, so she didn't bother with the patients in the quiet rooms. It would be mid-morning before anyone discovered the Lady Butcher was dead.

...

Thanksgiving within the walls of Briarcliff was a strange affair. Some of the well-meaning staff hung paper die-cut prints of turkeys and pumpkins on the walls. No pilgrims or Indians because most of them were illustrated with guns and bows. Nothing to inspire unhappy thoughts.

Breakfast was surprisingly good. The ladies had to be on guard: The cinnamon buns were warm and buttery-sweet, which made Jewel particularly aggressive in her attempts to procure as many of them from her neighbors as she could.

As it was a federal holiday, all occupational and personal therapy was cancelled. To manage the patients, everyone who wasn't being punished was allowed access to the halls, bathrooms, and common areas all day. In the commons, instead of the incessant Singing Nun, they played Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade on the huge floor model television that morning and, after a light lunch of turkey noodle soup and rusty tea, the patients were treated to the Lawrence Welk Show's Thanksgiving Day special. The overall mood at the asylum was relaxed; even the most difficult patients were reluctant to spoil what was shaping up to be the best day in the recent rocky past.

For Tate, it was a dream. He sat beside Violet on the floor as the Lawrence Welk show started on the old television screen. Shelley crowded up on his other side, which was okay because that meant he didn't have to worry about where he put his arms and legs. Tinny applause welcomed a pilgrim man and woman to the show. They delivered snappy patter about Plymouth Rock then went and got into a 1968 Plymouth Satellite Convertible. They drove off while the show's announcer introduced Lawrence Welk.

Maybe it was the drugs or maybe it was the company he was with, but Tate enjoyed the holiday-themed show. His mother used to watch Lawrence Welk all the time and he hated it. Toward the end, he'd taken to burying his head in headphones and listening to music on the record player in the den. It hadn't helped his headache but it had asserted some independence in what he had to listen to. He could also pretend not to hear her when he had the headphones on.

He still didn't really care for the dreary hymnal of Thanksgiving praise at the end of the show but the ending signaled dinner time. Another Plymouth advertisement saw the inmates out. They were herded through the wash-up routine and another unusually good meal was served: Actual boneless turkey with cornbread dressing and mashed potatoes, and little dry pumpkin tarts for dessert.

Compared to the past few months, it truly was something to be thankful for when prayer was held.

...

Across town, the end of the Lawrence Welk Show played on a smaller television that was propped on the sideboard near a small card table. The table had been set, simple yet charmingly elegant, with place settings for two.

Constance sat in one of the chairs, her wrists bound securely to the back legs of the chair. Her ankles were duct taped to the front legs. A panel gag kept a large ball securely in place in her mouth, preventing her from making noise. It was all she could do to breathe around the thing. Tears had dried on her face and under the leather straps of the gag.

Her heart skipped a beat when the door above the stairs opened. Footsteps followed, as did her anxiety.

"Honey, I'm home."

She looked back over her shoulder and saw him coming down off the basement steps with a brown grocery sack in one hand. He had a bottle of champagne in the other. She looked away to stop herself rolling her eyes in despair and disgust.

"Happy Thanksgiving," he said and he stopped beside her chair where he bent and pressed a kiss to her cheek. "I'm sorry that took so long. Apparently I'm not the only one who forgot the cranberry sauce."

He went over to the kitchenette he'd been using to provide for her over the past weeks and finished preparing the two meals. Once both plates looked picture-perfect he brought them out then went and got the champagne and two glasses. He arranged everything and admired it all for a moment before seating himself across from Constance.

She stared at him. He popped the cork on the champagne and poured out. Then he brought one glass to her side of the table. He set it down and finally reached for her gag.

"I'm looking forward to our first Thanksgiving together," he told her with soft sincerity. "I've never had a family Thanksgiving before."

Constance choked when the gag came out of her mouth and likely would have been sick if her stomach hadn't been empty at the time. Thredson brushed a blonde curl back from her temple. He'd cut her hair to make it easier to groom her. It gave her a contemporary look he didn't normally care for but, on her, it was flattering.

He set the gag down on the sideboard and turned off the television. Then he moved back over to free her hands so she could feed herself. She grabbed the champagne glass and rinsed away the taste of the gag while he seated himself across from her and shook out his napkin.

"Shall we say grace?" he asked. He wasn't particularly religious and certainly had his fill of ritual at the asylum, but it seemed appropriate for Thanksgiving dinner.

Constance stared at him, silent because she had to quell the first few dozen things that sprang to her tongue. Antagonizing him at this point wouldn't help her.

He took her silence to mean he should decide. "I think we should." He smiled. "It's traditional." He put his hands palm-up on the table and looked at her meaningfully.

She stared at him a bit longer then forced herself to put her hands in his. He bowed his head and she followed suit. But while he openly gave thanks for the bounty, she silently prayed that she would find a way to kill him before the meal was done.

...

The smell of fresh-baked pumpkin cupcakes lingered in the air but Dandy was too stuffed full of his mother's turkey dinner to even think of dessert just yet. The scent wasn't the least bit enticing. It just smelled sickly-sweet and cloying.

To make matters worse, Dandy was bored. All the good television programming was over and the news wasn't running anything about his escape. That insulted him. He was important. His escape should mean a state-wide manhunt, yet there wasn't even a sideline about it. He blamed Briarcliff, reasoning that they must not be placing emphasis on how dangerous he was.

He wasn't far off from the reality of things but that didn't matter much to his boredom. Nothing in the house interested him. He couldn't even stand to go into his playroom. It felt so idiotic, that room of oversized child's things. He was a man! He wanted a man's room. He might still prefer his liquor in a bottle with a nipple but that didn't mean he wanted to sleep in a crib.

"Mother," he called as he searched the large house for her. He wanted to tell her his decision about his room.

She had sent the only servant away when he'd escaped. The place felt even bigger and emptier than it had when he was growing up. Being a patient in Briarcliff helped him understand so much about the unhappiness he'd experienced living at home. He hated being alone. He _needed_ people. He needed them to adore him and entertain him and feed him and stimulate him. He needed to perform. He needed to fight and to live!

"Mother!"

He was getting annoyed. Where was she? Why was she ignoring him?

By the time he got to the music room, he was worked up into quite a state, ready to give his mother a serious piece of his mind. Didn't she know Thanksgiving was supposed to be a time families spent together?

His anger cooled immediately when he saw her. She was hanging by her neck from the chandelier, one of the silk ties from the velvet brocade drapes acting as her noose. A toppled mahogany chair lay nearby. She spun gently in the air like she was dancing.

At first Dandy thought she was playing a trick on him and he actually smiled. But when he came over and touched her hand, it was limp and cool. He grabbed her legs in a panic but her petticoats made it difficult to get a good grip on her.

"Mother! I've got you!"

He tried pushing her up but in her limp state, she just folded over on him. Her voluminous yellow skirts blinded him. He had to let her go so he could pick up the chair. He couldn't reach the noose without it.

Her body swung wildly and he had a hard time catching her once he got up onto the repositioned chair. When he had hold of her, he tried pulling the velvet cord free from the chandelier but she had tied it well. It wouldn't come free when he was using just one hand and he couldn't bear to let her go again. So he pulled as hard as he could on the decorative rope.

Dandy expected the noose would come untied or maybe the cord would tear, but it was the light fixture that gave way. It came down in a shower of plaster dust and crashed loudly on the wood floor. Gloria was yanked out of his grip and slammed on the floor in a way that left no doubt as to whether she was alive. Someone living would have reacted to such a harsh fall. She just lay there in an unnatural position, not moving.

Lost and defeated, the young man sank down beside his mother's body. For a few moments he was anguished, uncertain about his future. Then he got mad. How dare she abandon him? And on Thanksgiving! She was supposed to be there for him always! How was he supposed to manage without someone to do the shopping and cooking?

He hugged his mother's battered, dusty corpse close and looked down at her, tears brightening his eyes as his emotions tried to resolve into something definable. Something he could understand. "I can't believe how selfish you are." He lowered his chin and arched his brows meaningfully. A couple of tears dripped from his lashes onto her pale face. "After I cut you free, Mother, it's a bath and straight to bed. No pumpkin cupcakes for you tonight."

He pulled her close, buried his face in her neck, and sobbed into her dusty hair. After a few moments he sniffled wetly and lifted his head. He blinked away a few more tears and tipped his head back so he could see. He was truly alone now. Completely in charge of his destiny.

Dandy smiled. Then he laughed.

 **xxx**

* * *

Author's Note:

Cue end music.

All I had marked down in my outline for the last segment there was "T-day/Gloria suicide". Writing it was strange but editing was even stranger. I think I was still in Tate's frame of mind when I read it back because I couldn't help laughing at the visual of Gloria hitting the floor. Whump! Yellow skirts and petticoats and dust everywhere. That was really traumatic for Dandy though. Second parent he's lost and the second that's hung themselves. But I'm sure he'll be juuuust fine.

The next Episode's called **The White Room** because things are really getting crazy. I thought it sounded classier than "Padded Cell" and there's a great song by Cream written in 1968 that goes well with it.


End file.
